


like a loose thread on my favorite sweater

by plinys



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Because Those Dorks Have The Same Outfits, F/M, That Matching Sweater Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-03
Updated: 2014-06-03
Packaged: 2018-02-03 06:25:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1734374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plinys/pseuds/plinys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"That's my sweater!"</p>
<p>aka five times fitzsimmons matched without intending to and the one time they did it on purpose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	like a loose thread on my favorite sweater

**Author's Note:**

> based on [this](http://shslbespectacledbeauty.tumblr.com/post/87638423396/fitzsimmons-meeting-for-the-first-time-bc-they-as) hc by sarah!

1.

Three hours.

Three hours was how long it took for him to pick out his outfit that morning.

But three minutes was all the of time it took for all of his hard work to go down the drain. All that squinting in the mirror, trying to find the right match between presentable and scientific yet casual enough that nobody would suspect the anxiety over this whole order, went to waste as soon as the pretty girl from his orientation group turned around to introduce herself.

“Hi, I’m Jemma Simm- that’s my sweater,” would forever be the first words that she had said to him, at the time where he was slightly annoyed to have met somebody wearing the exact same sweater and equally awestruck like some sort of low budget rom-com’s protagonist.

Though he screwed it all up the moment when he replies without thinking, “no it’s not,” while possessively wrapping his arms around his chest, “it’s mine.”

She wrinkles her nose at that, “no, I mean, we match.”

“Obviously,” he replies, before letting go of his last bit of stubbornness and admitting, “it looks better on you though.”

“No, it definitely matches your eyes better,” she insists, “the blues all look really good together.”

“You don’t have to lie to make me feel better.”

“I can’t lie! It’s physically impossible, I’m destined to be the worst spy ever!”

“How did you even get in here?”

She fixes him with probably the most serious expression in the entire world, before holding her hands out to wave them spirit fingers style and says, “science.”

Leo can’t help the small laugh that escapes him, and the last bit of his resolve to be against the girl in a matching sweater goes away at once.

He wonders for the first time if maybe those three hours spent picking out his outfit weren’t a complete waste.

It’s not until much later, when they get drinks and starts talking about their first meeting once again in the very same matching sweaters, that she admits to have spent hours trying to pick the right outfit that day, when he realizes that wearing that sweater that day might have been the best decision of his life.

  
  


2.

Within a month of knowing each other, they had started a ritual of doing laundry together, since they had so many articles of clothing in common it had just seemed natural to wash them together.

At least, that had been the excuse he had come up with when Simmons had given him a skeptical look.

Somehow though as the months passed and the years passed it became their ritual, once a week Simmons would show up at his door, a laundry basket in her arms, and insist that it was time, in some overdramatic doom and gloom tone.

And so as laundry days became their tradition, one that usually ended with them sitting on top of the machines, ignoring the signs that told them not to, while talking about anything and everything in the world.

That is if they could actually get past the process of sorting their clothing out by color and stuffing it into the laundry machines.

So far that simple task has involved one argument, a debate over the ethics of Simmons leaving dead cats in the laboratory, and one impromptu dance number.

Which for them was actually a rather mellow start to laundry day.

“I’m pretty sure that’s mine,” Leo says, pointing at the sweater that Simmons is carefully unbuttoning in preparation for putting it in the washing machine.

She wrinkles her nose at him, because they’ve had this argument a million times, and he knows that, which is why he’s smiling back at her with a smug grin.

“Not anymore,” she says playing along and clutching the dirty sweater to her chest dramatically, “I stole it!”

“I knew it,” he replies, gasping over dramatically, before making finger guns with his hands, “return the sweater and nobody has to get hurt.”

Simmons starts to say something only to stop, laughter overflowing from her infectiously, so that he can’t keep a straight face no matter how hard he tries. Soon enough they’re laughing together, Leo with his fake finger guns pointing at her, and Simmons clutching the aforementioned sweater to her chest like a lifeline.

They just barely seem to be able to stop and regain their composure when somebody else stops by the laundry room, only to take one look at the two scientists, laughing over their laundry baskets and back out of the room.

  
  
  


3.

They stand awkwardly staring at each other across the hallway for a moment, having accidentally matched again.

Back before, when they were on the Bus this wouldn’t have been a problem.

Back when they had their own lab it was a sort of game to see how often they could end up accidentally matching.

However, now that they were here this was a problem, Ward still seemed to have trouble remembering which of them was which, and in the back of his head he could easily hear Skye teasing them about matching.

“One of us has to change,” Leo points to the obvious, tugging on the sleeves of his sweater.

“Roshambo,” Simmons offers, already holding out her fist.

“That’s not fair,” he objects, “you know I always use the same thing and so you cheat with your mind powers.”

“Having a good memory is not mind powers,” she says, before relenting and pulling off the sweater. “I have dibs on wearing it the next time we match.”

“Of course,” he says, nodding his head, “we’ll take turns. Though then they might assume we’re sharing-”

“I’m sure nobody will even notice, if we wear them far enough apparent-”

“Have you met our team-”

“Yes, but they are technically slightly different-”

“The corner of your sleeve being stained from cat guts-”

“Cat liver, and yes it does count,” she corrects, ending their conversation before it ever truly begun and slipping back into her bunk without another word.

Still, he calls, “just you wait and see,” at her back before heading towards their lab.

A few weeks later, when it’s Simmons’ turn to wear the sweater, he gets to watch with glee as Skye looks rapidly between them before asking, “isn’t that Fitz’s sweater?”

  
  


4.

He’d been asleep so long that moving back around his normal life feels a bit like he’s walking through a dream.

It’s not like he got amnesia or anything else crazy that the Web MD page Skye thrusts under his nose as soon as he has woken up suggests, he just feels a bit foggy sometimes - like his head is still under the water and he’s trying to sort out his way up to the surface.

He knows it’s silly to feel that way, but when it happens the headaches are too strong for him to bother with much else.

It’s one of those bad days, when he pulls on a sweater from the back of his closet. It’s blue and familiar to him, in a sort of deja vu way that is a sign he should probably be back in bed or taking some pretty strong pain killers.

Somehow though he manages to make it to the kitchen, letting out a noise of relief when he notices that the kettle is already on and Jemma is sitting at the table reading the news off of her tablet, with two mugs of tea in front of her.

“You’re a lifesaver,” he says, finding he means it both literally and figuratively as he takes his mug off of the table only to freeze, when she looks up at him setting her table down.

It takes a moment for the realization to sink it, but when it does he finds himself frozen.

Staring at her, wearing the very same sweater that is currently draped over his own shoulders brings back that sense of deja vu, but one that is warm this time, not painful. The feeling spreads through his body like the heat of the tea in his hands

“Hey Jemma,” he says, staring at her, his mug of tea halfway up to his mouth, “isn’t that my sweater?”

The look of relief so clear across her face, that it brings a smile to his own as well.

“Well, you’re wearing mine,” she says, breathless and happy, “what did you expect me to wear?”

 

 

5.

They’ve officially been together for almost a year, but officially is something that really ought to have a loose definition. For, as far as Leo was concerned they had been together since the first day of SHIELD Academy orientation when they both showed up in the same bright blue sweaters.

What had been new sweaters meant to impress their peers years ago, had grown with them, now the colors were faded, pockets stitched back together, and even stained in a few places. It sort of reminded him of them, if he was ever feeling particularly sentimental.

This had been one of those accidentally sentimental days, when pulling on a sweater without thinking had ended up being a blessing, when as he stood over blue prints only to realize he was wearing it.  

Only now though as they strolled through a park, ranting and raving about the awful people back at the lab, did he realize just how perfect that decision had been.

It was when Jemma shivering against the wind had reached into her purse to pull out a slightly rumpled sweater and protect herself from the wind, that he found himself smiling for no real reason.

“We’re matching,” he points out, and when she seems to realize it  as well she lights up, laughing lightly.

“Oh Fitz, we are,” she says between laughs, “I promise this was not intentional in the slightest! I was in a rush this morning and I just threw it in my purse.”

“Same,” he replies, “well, not the purse thing. I just threw it on and-”

“And here we are,” she finishes his sentence with a smile.

“Do you remember when Skye used to joke that we were on the same wavelength-”

“Sometimes I think she’s right-”

“This is one of those times-”

“Definitely! Oh Fitz, what am I going to do with you,” she asks, before correcting herself, “with us?”

“Marry me,” he says all too quickly, like he’s not even thinking about the word.

In truth he isn’t, all he’s thinking about is how Jemma looks in that sweater, smiling at him, while the sunsets over her shoulder.

“What?”

“Marry me,” he repeats, more sure this time. Suddenly remembering the weight in his pocket, the little box that he had been carrying with him for the past month trying to work up the courage for something that seems so easy now that he’s said it.

The five seconds between when he asks her and when she says yes feels like a lifetime, but finally she nods her head, so eager and excited, her smile never faltering and says, “yes! Yes, of course!”

 

 

+1

His head hurts, not in the relatively familiar hurt that comes from the last effects of a serious concussion, nor the rare throbbing he gets when he’s reminded that even the Scots have their drinking limits, but an entirely different hurt.

He groans slightly, as he rolls over in bed only to find the other half of his bed empty, which causes him to groan a tiny bit more.

There’s the sound of the shower running, so he at least knows that she’s still there.

Which is a blessing since he didn’t particularly fancy being left alone in a hotel room, the morning after the greatest night for his life.  

He doesn’t have to wait too long until she appears in the doorway, wet hair hanging over her shoulders, towel barely covering her, not that he hadn’t seen what was underneath the towel many times before.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, feeling like he’s stating the obvious, but also feeling like he needs to tell her those words every day for the rest of his life.

“You’re delusional,” she remarks back effortly, “but I married you so that must make me delusional too.”

That’s right, they were married now.

Hearing her say the word brought a smile to his lips, and he brought his hand up to his face to stare at his wedding band grinning like an idiot.

“That’s right you married me,” he agrees.

“Something I might consider regretting if you don’t get out of bed soon,” she jokes, at least he hopes it is a joke.

“Alternatively, you could come back to bed.

“No can do,” Jemma objects, “we’ve got a busy day ahead of us.”

He nods at that, as best he can, already knowing that Jemma has made more than enough plans for their day. He’s triple checked her itinerary for their honeymoon and knows it by heart, but that doesn’t mean they can’t make a few adjustments.

“What are you doing,” he asks, propping himself up to watch as Jemma digs through their suitcases.

“Getting dressed.”

“Do you have to?”

She shoots him a playful glare at that, “I can’t just stay in a towel all day.”

“You could take the towel off,” he answers quickly.

Her only reply is a dismissive snort.

“You should come back to bed,” he says trying to manage for coy or sexy, but obviously failing, the expression on Jemma’s face, on his wife’s face, one of clear amusement.

“Mhmm, best not,” she replies, “you don’t want a repeat of last night.”

Last night.

He tries to remember what it was exactly that happened, that could elicit such a response from her. When it hits him he groans, rubbing at his head, “that’s why my head hurts?”

“You were very enthusiastic,” she teases.

“Oh god, Jemma, divorce me quick, before anybody notices what an idiot you’ve married,” he says, embarrassment coloring his cheeks, as he brings one of the bed’s blankets up to cover his face.

“I can’t,” she says, “though my idiot husband should come help me pick out what to wear.”

Realizing that he’s on the losing side of his debate he gives in, staring up at their hotel room’s ceiling, he says, “you should wear the blue sweater, you know the one that brings out your eyes.”

She hesitates before reply, and so he turns to look at her, takes in her fond smile, and realizes he is most certainly the luckiest man in the world when she replies, “only if you wear yours.”

  
  



End file.
